Okay, that title may just be hyperbole. But it was pretty damned bad.

I joined this dating website once, whose name I won’t mention here because I don’t know if they can sue me and I don’t want to find out. I had joined it before, dated a few duds (not dudes, but duds) and deleted my page. In all honesty, dating websites are just something fun to do. You write a great profile story, upload your best photos and the prospects come streaming in. Oil, that is. Black Gold. Texas tea. Most of my callers were usually white guys trying to work out their ebony fantasies, dudes whose first message is “how tall I gotta be to ride that ride?”, and the occasional decent dude. Sorting through the riffraff is my personal version of thrifting. Some gently worn, some trash, all used. I love it.

One day, I received a message from  James. His profile stated that he was 6’5″, a children’s basketball coach and showed pictures of him holding up two striped bass. He was 42 and a little leaner than I like, but I went with it. After a few exchanges on the website, we exchanged numbers. Turned out that James had good conversation,  a baritone that would cut butter, and was ready to meet. Over the weekend, my best friend was having a fish fry for her family, and I decided to ask James to come. That way, I’d be safe, around family, and if it didn’t work out, we’d always have fodder for the joke reel. And fodder we would have. In abundance.

The day of the fish fry, while the bff and I were in the fish market negotiating prices for catfish nuggets,  I called him to see if he was still coming. He told me that his team had a game, but that he’d come through afterwards if his car wasn’t acting up. I felt something in my head shift, and asked him if he wanted a ride. He accepted, and made a big deal about how usually women wouldn’t offer that and he liked that I did. When I hung up, buyer’s remorse set in and I immediately regretted offering the ride. I turned to my girl and found she’d been listening. She was shaking her head with a “girl, you stupid” look on her face….and I was shaking my head too. You that desperate for a date that you would go pick his ass up, Nic?

We prepared the fish and coleslaw. After we were done, I showered and changed into a red denim skirt, fishnets, black chucks, a Beatles t-shirt and a black blazer. Makeup and a red lip. I pinned my twist out into a mohawk and left the house. He lived all the way in the city, down on Vandeventer in one of those four-family flats. He sent his son down to open the door for me and lead me to their apartment. When I got to their door, James was leaning against the frame. Finally facing each other, he smiled, looked me up and down dramatically, sucked his teeth and said, “Yeah, that’ll work.” I replied with a nervous, unsure chuckle as he let me in. He cleared a spot on the armchair and motioned for me to sit. Grabbing his shirt off of the ironing board, he continued the conversation with his son that I assumed they were having before I arrived.

“Y’all embarrassed the fuck outta me today! Got me looking like we don’t practice EVERYDAY. You let them niggas beat y’all on both ends of the court. Talmbout you wanna go to Syracuse. You ain’t getting into Syracuse playing that kinda defense.”

He went on and on in this manner while he buttoned his shirt and put on his socks and shoes. (Strike #1: Don’t berate your children in front of strangers. The talk was appropriate for a coach to have with his players, just not in front of ME.) He motioned that he was ready to go – finally! I think, because this is awkward as fuck! – and I stepped out into the hallway ahead of him and started down the stairs. Between floors, he caught me by the arm and tells me that he didn’t get a hug. It was a little too soon, but I love hugs. He gives me a nice hug with all of the back rubbing that I like. As we pull apart, he kisses me real quick, saying “I’m sorry, I just had to take that.” (Strike #2: Learn how to discern when the moment is right. That was not the moment. At all.)

I didn’t tell y’all what he was wearing. Unlike his profile photos, he had a head full of baby dreads. He hadn’t shaved, and was wearing a salmon-colored button down, wide leg jeans and some Ferragamos with bunion impressions. And a pleather coat to keep him warm. You know, 42-year-old gear. He had nails too. I hate those on men, vehemently. And before you ask, I am not a label whore. I didn’t know they were Ferragamos, he proudly told me so. So boom.

Back to the story. We made it back to my girl’s house, the guests had arrived and the party was swinging.  I fixed him a plate and a drink, and poured myself a drink. He sat with me and ate as I played spades. Now that I had him outside of his environment, I noticed his mannerisms were…different. I finished a hand of spades, went to fix myself another drink and my girl leaned into my ear and said “WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH HIM?”, an inquiry at which my half-past-tipsy ass died laughing. The only way I can describe it is….well, y’all remember the way Bill Cosby used to purse his lips, waggle his eyebrows, and do that little shaky head motion for the pudding pop commercials? Imagine that, but just all the time.  In the hood, we’d say it was “kinda gay”. At this point, I know that I will NEVER live this dude down with my friends. I brought the old ass, gay-acting nigga with the baby dreads, wide-legged jeans and elf shoes to the party. Nope. I am not EVER living this down.

I finished my game of spades, and he and I relocated to the living room, where he turns into an octopus. Feeling me down, talking about “Yeah, I like this.” Trying to break free from his grasp, I led him out into the garage where the smokers were smoking. He turned the smoke down, saying that he was in the middle of job hunting. I heard a record screech in my brain here, but I was close to drunk and I knew he wasn’t going to make the cut anyway, so I let it go. I should add here that he kept holding me close and I didn’t feel anything tapping me on my thigh. Do with that information what you will.

Anyway, we got ready to leave, and my girl saw plainly that I was past the tipping point. She asked him if he would drive and he agreed, hopped into the driver’s seat and we took off. Once we got to the highway where I didn’t have to give him directions anymore, I asked him if he had a good time. He said, “I had an okay time. I don’t think the man of the house liked me too much.” I looked at him like he had two heads. He went on to say, “I mean, I know niggas. And that nigga? He ain’t like me. And neither did the woman of the house. I mean, but hey. *shrug* These are YOUR friends, and you know them better than I do. But if they supposed to be your friends so tough, why she let ME drive you home?! You HER friend!”

While he is saying all of this, he is having tics. The kind where a shoulder jerked at intervals, and his head is jerking to meet the non-jerking shoulder. Imagine it, if you will. “I don’t think the man of the house liked me too much. *tic* I mean, I know niggas. *tic* And that nigga? *tic* He ain’t like me. And neither did the woman of the house. I mean, but hey. *shrug* These are YOUR friends, *tic* and you know them better than I do. But if they supposed *tic* to be your friends so tough *tic*, why she let ME drive you home?! *tic* You HER friend! *tic*”

Between my own tipsiness, the tic situation and the fact that he just snapped off about my very best friend, it’s safe to say I was speechless at this point. I was concentrating intently on interjecting listening responses and hoping that he didn’t continue on in this way for the entire ride back into the city. How does one tame crazy, keep it to a minimum? Be cool, nod and say “mmhmm” at regular intervals, Nic. You got this.

Just as I was thinking this, I saw flashing lights in the side mirror.

You might understand how it may be a liiiittle hard to keep a truck in the lane while you’re going off AND having tics, yes? Yeah. It is. James says, “Is that for US?” I look over and see the police car is directly behind us and I reply, “Yes, I think so.” He pulls the truck onto the shoulder of the highway and puts it in park.

James: *yells* FUUUUUUCK! Oh my God.

Me: *looks at him*

*it’s worth noting here that I only fixed him ONE DRINK, so I’m not worried at all. Well, not until he says…

James: I got warrants. I can’t go to jail. Oh my God.

Me: *reaches over and turns off the engine*

James: OH MY GOD! I left my boy at home alone. I can’t go to jail. You gotta say that I’m driving you home because you’re too drunk. OKAY?!

Me: Okay.

The officer came to the driver’s side window, and said that James was having trouble holding his lane. Asked if he’s been drinking. Took his license and went back to his squad car.

Have you guys ever been in the car with a man that is about to go to jail? It is probably one of the most tense situations I’ve ever encountered. A man about to have all of his freedom taken from him….he was like a caged animal. He had no idea what to do. He started asking me if I was okay to drive, rehearsing what we were going to tell the officers, grabbing his dreads, saying “OH MY GOD” over and over again…he really didn’t know what to do with himself. Out of options, he must have felt the calling of the ancestors on his life….because this man began to pray.

And when I say pray? I mean, yes, I was drunk, but this was one of the most earnest prayers in the matchless name of Jesus that I have ever heard. And I was married to a preacher at one time, so I am an expert on earnest prayer. Believe me. James called down angels on his behalf, invoked protection around his son at home alone, he commanded favor with the state troopers and repented for his wrongdoings. It really was a beautiful prayer. And right when he was done, the trooper asked him to step out of the car.

I wasn’t interested in what was going on, and didn’t turn around to look. We were in Frontenac, one of the richest neighborhoods in St. Louis. I was trying to be still and go home. A tall, tubby, jovial officer came to my side of the car and asked me for my identification. I gave it to him, he checked the expiration and gave it back to me, asking, “So where do you know James from?” I told him that this was our first date and he doubled over laughing. Then he rared back and laughed harder, saying, “You don’t wanna let him drive you anywhere, honey. He blew a 0.18 on the breathalyzer, and he’s got warrants cause his license is revoked.” Chuckling and patting the door, he told me he’d be back to test me to see if I could drive myself home.

My first thought was, a 0.18?! He only had ONE drink! How in the fuck did that happen? Was he drunk when I picked him up? I didn’t smell anything on him, but that would explain the basketball tirade and his loose mannerisms. They put James in the back of their car, tested me and said that I wasn’t legally drunk, but too close to it to let me drive. I was detained and my truck towed.

…so went the glory, and this is the way I have to end this story…

Okay, okay…a little more. This has been long enough, I’ll summarize the rest in bullet points. LOL

• I wanted to know what he had warrants for, so I checked his name in our city’s database. I found that he has been evicted from every apartment he’s owned since the 90s. Also, his license was revoked for DUI. AND, he was suing for unemployment.
• I googled him. Besides the mugshot from some previous arrests, I found a totally separate profile for him  on the dating website made by women he’d played. He even has an entry on DontDateHimGirl.com. Apparently, he gives sob stories to women about not having heat or gas and they feel bad for him because of his son. They help him out and then doesn’t pay them back.
• He did call me, from jail three days later. I answered and he asked me if I had $200 he could borrow because his son wasn’t in a good situation and he needed to get home. I said no, that I had to get my truck out of the impound. He hung up SO FAST.
• After he was released from jail, he texted me to say “I made it out of jail with my bootyhole intact…I haven’t seen a woman all weekend. Can’t wait to see you again.”

……

Nawl, bruh. I’m good.

#fin

Side note:  note that I went against my better judgment and picked him up for our date. I remember that something shifted in my head right before I said I’d pick him up. That, my darlings, was supposed to happen. I would have never found out any of the other stuff if I hadn’t. Go with your instincts, at all times.